Deceiving
by miss.daydreaming
Summary: The story of one uninvolved person's encounter with one of Bhaal's Children hopefully more interesting than I've made it sound here


Deceiving

By MelG

Disclaimer: Baldur's Gate and all connected names/places are not mine. I really wish they were but I ain't that lucky. It belongs to Bioware and that lot. The woman mentioned in this story however, **_is_** mine so please don't try to steal her. As I'll explain in the author's note this story is _very_ loosely inspired by a poem, to be exact, 'An Old Woman' by Arun Kolatkar.

A/N: this story is loosely based around a poem I had to read in school several months ago. This poem happened to be written in the second person and my teacher made the comment that this was very difficult to achieve and almost impossible to do well in prose. I took this as something of a challenge and decided that I'd give it a go. It was only later that lesson that I was sitting and daydreaming and I decided that I might as well write this potential story with my Baldur's Gate character, Kelyra the half-drow Bhaalspawn. After a week or so, I came up with this little piece. I hope you enjoy it. (And just in case you're curious, I think my teacher was wrong; I didn't find this particularly difficult to write once I'd got started)

The sun shines gently down on the cobbled streets of Beregost. A group of six adventurers walks down one street. Curious eyes follow their every move. The news has only recently arrived of the adventurers who have cleared out the mines at Nashkell. No names or descriptions are yet known and many people wonder if this group might be those young travellers.

Your eyes are among the onlookers. You find that your gaze is drawn not to the tall elven woman, the strong human man, the cheerful human girl or the exotic looking woman in purple robes. The giant of a man with the tiny hamster perched on his shoulder holds your attention for a moment but your eyes quickly come to rest on the last member of the group. You are left in no doubt that she is the leader; there is something about the way she holds herself, commanding respect without demanding it. Pale hair surrounds her dark face, a combination you have heard spoken of in a thousand fireside tales. Drow. Yet you have a hard time believing this young woman to be a member of that evil race; you can't say why. Maybe it is something in the way a gentle, honest smile rests on her lips. Or perhaps it is the fact that she has shown no sign of desiring the death of every living thing in the vicinity. That small fact has been in every story about the drow you have ever heard, of that you are certain.

You wonder if you should tell somebody, go and inform the High Priest of the Temple perhaps. But something stops you; this young woman has done nothing, why does she deserve to be chased out of town, or killed outright, as you are certain she would be if the High Priest knew of her presence?

Or possibly you are wrong. Maybe this young woman only looks like a drow. For a moment, as the sunlight falls on her, you see another face out of tales. Paler skin and darker hair. Moon elf. Then the moment is gone and a drow woman stands there once again, leaving only your memory of her shifted appearance and the doubt in your mind.

You wonder if anyone else has noticed her. Stupid question; almost every eye on the street follows her. But they seem to see only a pretty young woman with strange hair and skin. Your love for stories allows you to see what they cannot. Or maybe their eyes prevent them from seeing what they do not wish to. For to acknowledge her race one would almost certainly have to acknowledge her actions and that would rise a paradox that these simple country folk would be hard put to resolve.

But no, you realise that you are wrong. You are not the only one to recognise and acknowledge the woman's race. You watch the man's face twist into a snarl as the woman passes him. His accusing cry rings across the street, drawing a reaction from everybody there. "Filthy drow bitch. What do you want here?" Almost as one person, the onlookers find other pressing tasks to attend to; they have no wish to become involved in any situation concerning the most feared of all races. Deeply ingrained racist fear makes them leave, despite the lack of hostility of the woman in question.

You don't know why you don't leave too. But for some reason you stay, feeling some strange need to see the outcome of this, you believe, undeserved attack. So you watch on. The woman's companions react instantly, reaching for their weapons with angry expressions. "NO! Stop it!!" The woman's cry stops their hands although none of them relax. The woman makes no move for her own weapon; her quarterstaff remains relaxed in her grasp. Slowly she turns to meet her attackers glare. You are standing quite a distance away from them, but her simple reply is clear in the silent air. "What would you have me do? I had no choice of my heritage and even if I had, I would not have chosen differently. Would you have me kill myself simply because you take exception to my appearance?" Her voice gained passion as she spoke, expressing her anger not just at this man but at everyone who had ever treated her in the same way. Her voice became softer and sadder as she finished. "What am I supposed to do?"

The man's only reply is to spit onto the cobblestones at her feet before turning his back and walking away. The woman slumps slightly but immediately her companions are there with soft words and comforting gestures. You continue to watch, still unable to look away from the strange woman whose appearance and actions seem to be so contradicting.

Finally, the woman looks up and this time her eyes meet yours directly. Despite the distance between you, you can see her eyes with perfect clarity and what you see steals your breath. Her eyes are beautiful liquid brown but they seem filled with immeasurable pain. In the short time she holds your gaze you read in her eyes the tale of a thousand small injustices and the pain of one who has suffered more in twenty short years than anyone should ever have to. You don't understand how she could possibly have survived such pain. Then the strange thought comes to you that perhaps she has not. Perhaps her eyes contain the sum of the pain of everyone who has ever suffered undeservedly. Whether that is true or not, in her eyes there also burns a sincere question. Why? You know the answer, know that probably she knows it too, but somehow it seems utterly inadequate when faced with her honest question.

Then, almost before you realise it, she has gone and you are left with the memory of her intense, beautiful eyes.

You never see the woman again, you never learn her name. But maybe you always remember her face, her eyes. And maybe one day you hear of the adventures of a young woman in the south. A woman who looks like a drow elf but acts with a kindness rarely seen even in humans. Then you recall the woman you once saw. And maybe you teach your children some of the lessons this woman you never knew taught you. The dangers and stupidity of unthinking prejudice, the importance of judging by actions, not appearances. And so, without ever knowing you, the young woman affected you life, changed your views forever.

Or perhaps you forget her, do your best to drive the image of her eyes from your mind. And when you hear stories of a woman in the south matching the description of the woman you once saw, you ignore them. After all, what effect can heroes and heroines have on you, safe in your simple life? And you tell you children the same stories that your parents told you, continuing the unthinking prejudice against anyone with the misfortune of being born with the 'wrong' colour skin. So making those few good-hearted individuals' already hard paths harder.

But, whatever happens, once at least, you saw that appearance can be the most deceiving of all things.


End file.
